


Never

by ZoS



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, F/F, Light Angst, Pre-Relationship, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-07 00:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18862342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: Not your usual elevator story.





	Never

**Author's Note:**

> So this one took me a little while to get out. My grandpa has just died and it's been a really tough couple of weeks where I didn't really feel like writing, but I'm getting back into it now, so hopefully you guys enjoy this one.
> 
> This fic takes place somewhere between the benefit and Paris.

This is _not_ how Andy thought her day would go.

It starts out normal--as normal as a second assistant to Miranda Priestly's day can be. She gets out of bed at a godawful hour (more like drags herself out, hair messy and tangled and bladder on the verge of bursting) and takes a shower. Then she dresses as quietly as she can, careful not to wake Nate, who's sleeping only a few feet away. She couldn't not notice, lately, all the disadvantages to having such a small apartment.

And Nate, he's... a problem for later. She's been telling herself that constantly recently, day after day, postponing it as if she were postponing doing her laundry, but the fact remains that she is incredibly busy and until things settle down, until the next _Runway_ issue is in print and the hourglass, once again, rewinds--until Nate is ready to have an actual conversation, there's not much she can do in the way of mending the crumbling mess that is her relationship.

Once she has a moment to breathe, she'll make it up to him. She'll cook him a romantic dinner (ha!), or even go away with him for a weekend--that'd be nice. They'll make it right again, and they'll go back to being Nate and Andy. Good, old Nate and Andy.

For now, though, Andy checks her outfit in the mirror--silky, green _Chanel_ blouse and beige _Bill Blass_ trousers; complimented by four inches of _Jimmy Choo_ s--and leaves the apartment, quietly shutting the door behind her.

The rest of her morning, however, is anything but quiet. Already upon arriving at the office, she's inundated with phone calls before she can even take her seat behind the desk. Emily, who's already been taking calls for an hour before Andy showed up, sends her a glare from behind her own desk before going back to snootily replying to the person on the other end of the line.

Then Miranda graces them with her presence and the quiet is all relative--a performance to keep up in order to keep the boss happy (though Andy has never seen her so much as give a genuine smile). In reality, Andy has a hundred e-mails to read and write, a thousand errands to run, and not a moment to sit back and exhale.

It's a thankless job, she knows that much. She's grown, she's ditched her attitude, she's learned to respect and even sometimes revere her workplace, but it's grueling nonetheless.

Nigel told her the other day that once you start doing well at work, your personal life begins going down the drain. He might have a point, but she's not tempted to dwell on it. She refuses to believe that she can't have both--it really isn't much to ask for, not for a lowly assistant whose greatest responsibility is getting a latte order right--and decides, instead, to rejoice in the "doing well" part.

Come to think of it, she _has_ been doing well. Miranda, anyway, seems... not content, never that, but pacified enough with her newfound dedication to work. Andy thinks that she might even be impressed at times, but trying to figure out Miranda's thoughts and feelings is about as futile as trying to fit her size-4 ass into a size-2 dress.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Miranda's voice rings from her office, soft yet firm: "Coat, bag," which is when Andy remembers that they're due to go to a preview at up-and-comer Chloe Wright's showroom. She shakes herself out of her hazy musings just as Miranda strides out of the interior office, five-inch heels clicking rhythmically on the floor, threatening with the doom of anyone that so much as stands in their way, and Andy all but bolts out of her chair in the direction of the closet.

She spends the first five minutes of the car ride updating Miranda on the rest of her day's schedule as well as all the accomplished tasks she's requested completed--or, well, demanded. She only shuts up when she catches the irritated look on Miranda's face--her lips pursed, her eyes barely restraining from rolling--and supposes that car chatter is pretty much equivalent to elevator chatter: being confined in a small space with a nerve-wracked underling who can't keep their mouth shut. Which is why no one ever gets to ride an elevator with Miranda.

The elevator rule, however, no longer applies to Andy for some reason. The first time Miranda jerked her head, signaling for her to join her inside, was easily explained by their tardiness to another preview--Miranda not keen on wasting any more time by waiting for her assistant to arrive in a separate car.

So it was only natural that Andy would be stupid enough to taint the rare opportunity by initiating small talk. She babbled like an idiot while Miranda stood ramrod-straight, icy cold by her side, probably wanting to kill herself--or, more likely, Andy--and her words promptly dwindled down and died in her mouth.

If she'd thought, though, that Miranda would learn from her mistake after that and never repeat the generous gesture, she was bewildered to be wordlessly summoned to Miranda's side again some time after that, Miranda's eyes narrowing at her as if she should have known to join her without getting a special invitation.

Andy doesn't dwell on why she's the exception to Miranda's rule either, and she may be stupid, but not stupid enough to question Miranda about it. She has learned to keep quiet, though, which may be the reason Miranda doesn't kick her out when, upon arriving at their designated building, she follows her into the elevator without prompting.

When they get to the showroom, the rest of the "fashion squad," as Andy likes to think of them--consisting of Nigel, Jocelyn, Lucia, and a few fresh faces whose names she hasn't yet learned--are already there and Chloe approaches to shake Miranda's hand with a look that Andy determines is a combination of worship and trepidation.

A few nods, zero smiles, and, thankfully, no pursed lips later, they leave the studio; Miranda and Nigel walking ahead of everybody, murmuring thoughts and opinions about the viewing, while Andy drags a few feet behind, trying to juggle texting and not tripping in her high heels.

And then they're alone in the elevator again, the rest of the team waiting outside for the second one to arrive. Andy busies herself with the next thing on the agenda, her eyes fixed on her phone screen, while Miranda already dons her large sunglasses in preparation for the afternoon sun outside.

And then it happens.

Andy's just firing off a text when she hears a horrible banging sound, followed immediately by vigorous rattling before the elevator comes to a grinding halt. Her hand--out of instinct more than necessity--shoots out to grasp the railing, but the elevator is already still; no longer rattling and, more importantly, no longer moving.

Her heart still pounding from the sudden jolt, she turns, wide-eyed, to Miranda, whose eyes are just as big behind the sunglasses and whose lips are pinched to almost whiteness. Then she turns her outraged expression onto Andy, as if she was the one who stopped the elevator with her bare hands.

Andy gulps and mutters, "Um..." and Miranda gives her an even more scalding glare, as though saying, "What the hell are you waiting for?"

"Fix. It," she grinds out, her voice almost trembling with rage, her cheeks and ears turning pink.

All Andy can do is nod hurriedly before getting a grip, snapping out of her haze (she's learned to do that in the last months: function well under pressure), and turning back to the silver doors. Next thing she knows, her hands are banging against them, and while the sound doesn't carry very well thanks to their heaviness and density, she also finds herself shouting, "Help! Can somebody hear me? It's Andy; Miranda and I are stuck! Miranda Priestly!"

Despite herself, she feels her cheeks burn at hearing herself screaming Miranda's name with Miranda not two feet away. She's never shouted around Miranda, period, and she has no doubt her boss is growing agitated with her volume. But what else can she do?

They couldn't have gotten too far from the ninth floor--maybe three or four floors? Perhaps the rest of the staff will be able to hear her, or maybe they've already figured out the elevator is stuck and are currently working on getting help.

Nevertheless, she punches the alarm button several times, then tries the door open button, then just uses the flats of her palms to press all the buttons on the panel at once, but her efforts are futile: the lights around the buttons are out and no results are forthcoming.

"HELP!" she tries again, banging again. "We're in here!"

"Just don't tell me you're claustrophobic," she hears Miranda's soft (yet very irked) voice murmur from her side.

Andy's too scared to meet her gaze, face her wrath, and only huffs, "No," and bangs one more time, desperately. But then her eyes widen in terror and her head does whip to the side. "Are you?" Because being stuck in an elevator with Miranda is one thing. Being stuck in an elevator with a _claustrophobic_ Miranda? That's a whole other shitshow.

Miranda rolls her eyes in exasperation, which might be her way of saying "no." That probably doesn't mean that she likes being stuck in an elevator any better. Neither does Andy, whose palms begin to tingle with the force of her banging. She takes to using her fists instead.

Sighing in-- not resignation, not yet, she takes a step away from the door some time later and voices her thoughts, "The guys upstairs must have already notified someone. Maintenance are probably working on getting it fixed as we speak." She doesn't know which one of them she's trying to convince, but hangs on to the knowledge that no one in their right mind would let Miranda Priestly stay in a stuck elevator for long.

Miranda, in lieu of a response, rolls her eyes again and reaches into her handbag, extracting her _Motorola Razr_. Oh! Andy whips her own phone out of her bag... only to discover that there's no signal inside the elevator. Her last text didn't send either. _Damn it!_

Turning cautious eyes toward Miranda, she sees her dump her phone back into her bag with a look of pure disdain, obviously having realized the same thing.

Her new reality, at last, fully dawns on Andy: she's trapped. Inside an elevator. With Miranda freaking Priestly. If she makes it out of this ordeal alive, she better get a fucking medal.

She can't help but remember a night back in Cincinatti when she was nine-years-old. Entering the living room, she found her parents sitting in front of the television, faces ashen and disbelieving. On the screen, a news anchor reported about a woman's dead body found within ten blocks of their house and warned about the killer still being on the loose, prompting the viewers to keep their doors and windows locked.

That night, while her parents slept astoundingly soundly, Andy lay nestled between their warm, protective bodies, keeping her bloodshot eyes on their bedroom door and listening for any sound in the house that might indicate an intruder coming to murder them next.

The fear that gripped her that night was nothing compared to her panic now at sharing this confined space with Miranda.

What can she do? she asks herself again. There's only so much she can from inside the elevator; for once being Miranda's equal at least in one aspect. Nevertheless, that doesn't prevent her insides from quivering in apprehension at the livid look on her boss' face. Miranda isn't used to feeling helpless, and definitely isn't used to not being serviced on cue.

"I'm sorry, Miranda, I don't know what else to do," she quietly admits and tries not to feel indignance at having to apologize, at being expected to find a solution when she's in the same boat as Miranda. It would be nice, in fact, if Miranda came up with an idea of her own, if she started calling and banging on the doors along with Andy instead of standing back and watching. It would be nice if she cared about Andy for once, and if pigs started flying.

All she does is take off her sunglasses (possibly realizing she won't be blinded by the sun in the upcoming minutes) and look away from Andy. Which suits Andy just fine, she decides bitterly and folds her arms against her chest, leaning back against the wall. It's uncomfortable with the railing in the way, but if Miranda isn't going to do anything, then neither will she.

Then she catches herself and realizes that she's being petty and ridiculous, and that they won't be stuck in this tiny cubicle forever and when they do get out, she doesn't want Miranda to have an incentive to fire her.

So she pushes away from the wall and asks, as gently as she can manage, "Are you okay?" This is probably not a very smart course of action either, and quite possibly more life-threatening than an elevator sinking loose down its pier, but Miranda's face is now pale instead of red and the last thing they need is a panic attack. And damn Andy's sympathy and compassion, she doesn't want to see Miranda like that!

"Fine," is Miranda's clipped reply. She shifts on her feet, squares her shoulders, cracks her neck, and adds, "Remind me to have a chat with the building's owner when we're out."

Despite herself, Andy grins. Trust Miranda to find herself in a dire situation such as this and immediately think about whose life to ruin as a consequence. So long as it's not Andy's, she can find some amusement in it. She'd feel bad for the building's owner if she wasn't trapped with the Dragon Lady in the same elevator.

Assuming that rescue isn't imminent, she boldly lowers herself to the ground, ignoring Miranda's scandalized glare. Sure, the floor isn't exactly clean and her trousers cost about $200 that she didn't pay, but her feet are killing her after a day of running in heels, and in the spirit of things, she also takes her shoes off.

"It might be a while before they get us out," she says by way of explanation or encouragement or both, tilting her head back to find Miranda's gaze. "No reason to just stand around."

"If you think I'm about to sit on that floor," Miranda says in a strained voice, just above a whisper, and Andy is surprised that she even deigned to answer her in the first place, "then you are sorely mistaken."

Feeling even bolder, Andy shrugs and says, "Suit yourself."

Nevertheless, after a few more minutes of excruciating silence, each one passing slower than the last, she leans her head back against the stainless steel wall, sighs, and looks up at Miranda again. "I'm sorry that this happened."

She expects Miranda's response to be, "As you should be," or, "Don't waste my time with frivolous apologies," or for Miranda to ignore her altogether. She does not expect Miranda to wave her hand dismissively and say, "Not your fault, I suppose."

It's begrudging and offhanded, but Andy cherishes the ever-so-rare words nonetheless. Then, even more shockingly, Miranda grabs the railing for support as she joins Andy on the floor in her $950 _Armani_ dress, folding her legs regally beneath her.

"I had a friend once," Andy blurts out, pretending not to make a big deal of Miranda's actions at all, "who got stuck in an elevator and no one realized until eight hours later." As soon as the words are out of her mouth, however, she regrets them. And also wonders, if Miranda wasn't with her, would anyone realize she was there? Would anyone care?

"Thank you for that lovely piece of information," Miranda replies dryly, looking acutely uncomfortable--whether at the threat of spending hours in the elevator or spending them with Andy is unclear.

And, once again, silence commences.

Never has the atmosphere, while being in the presence of Miranda, been so charged. And it almost always is. Andy often wishes for some quiet, for her boss to not call out a quiet and impatient "Andrea" and demand a taxing list of tasks Andy can barely keep up with. Now she tries, with her mind, to will her to speak up, to breach the silence, to say something--anything, like... like...

"Wanna hear a joke?" she asks and, her brain catching up with her, promptly presses her lips into a hard line and prays for the elevator floor to open up and drop her into the deep, narrow pier below.

Miranda, predictably, skewers her with a baleful glare and enunciates, "No."

"You sure?" Andy presses on despite the voice in her head that tells her to _shut up_ , feeling her cheeks warming up again at her audacity. She wonders if anyone has ever had the balls to tell Miranda a joke. With the huge stick up her ass, it's possible that she's never heard one. "It's a really funny one."

This time, Miranda doesn't even deign to answer. Or acknowledge her at all, for that matter, instead turning her lethal glare onto the firmly closed doors of their death trap. That's how Andy's going to refer to it for the time being because whether they get rescued or not, she thinks today might just be her last day on Earth.

And in that case, she may as well just do whatever the fuck she wants. "What's black, then white, then black, then white again?"

Although Miranda's now presenting her with her flawless profile, she can see her lips tightening into a displeased purse, her nostrils flaring with her fury. Yet Andy is unable to contain her grin when she answers, unprompted, "A penguin rolling down a hill." And there's no mistaking Miranda's mighty eye roll, followed by a long-suffering sigh.

"How much longer till they get this thing open?" she demands irritably, but doesn't sound like she's holding her breath.

Which allows Andy to retort, "I don't know, I'm right here with you." Then she looks down at the floor, gets a thought, and suggests, "I can try to stick one of my heels in between the doors, get them to open."

Her tone doesn't hold much conviction, though, and she's not surprised when Miranda--sounding bored, impatient, and nonchalant all at once--replies, "If you can pry open five hundred pounds of steel with a _Jimmy Choo_ stiletto, more power to you."

Albeit disgruntled, Andy can concede that there's not much merit to her idea and she _has_ broken a _Jimmy Choo_ heel once on a run from _Starbucks_ to _Elias-Clarke_. She eyes Miranda's feet, adorned by classic _Louboutin_ s--can't go wrong with _Louboutin_ \--which are undoubtedly sturdier, but Miranda makes no move to take them off and Andy doesn't pick up hers and they stay on the floor, staring at the doors.

"We can play a game," Andy offers feebly, hearing her voice coming as if from far away, and chances a bashful glance at Miranda's face. If she were stuck with a friend, with someone she actually likes, with someone who likes  _her_ , they'd have already found a way to turn their circumstances in their jolly favor. "You know, to pass the time."

Miranda's purse is still firmly in place, but her shoulders sag a little. "You got a pack of cards in your bag I don't know about?" is her snarky response.

"Well, no," Andy drawls, though it's something to keep in mind for the next time she gets stuck in an elevator, "but we can play something that doesn't require props. Like... oh, 'I Spy With My Little Eye.'"

She watches Miranda stick her tongue in her cheek before dryly muttering, "I spy with my little eye something silver."

Andy takes the hint. "Okay, so not that. What about, um... 'Never Have I Ever?'" Miranda turns to her with a small frown, but says nothing further. "You never played that?"

"No," she mutters almost inaudibly and turns to run her eyes all around her, as if looking for a hidden opening to get her out. Or transport her into another dimension; anywhere she won't have to share her space with Andy.

Determined not to be insulted, Andy sets to explaining, "Well, it's a game we used to play in college: someone says something they've never done and if the others have, they take a shot. It's simple, really."

When Miranda's eyes return to her, there's evident curiousity in them, even as she tries to mask it as boredom, and one eyebrow lifts. "Do you have alcohol?" she asks, her eyes lowering to Andy's bag.

Andy deflates slightly and admits, "I don't." Though it would surely make her days a lot easier.

Not a second passes before Miranda loses interest and looks away, and Andy's mind goes into overdrive because, being Miranda's assistant, she's learned that "no" is never an option and alternative options are.

"But," she hurries to say, lifting her bag onto her lap and digging in. A moment later, she pulls out a box of energy bars, still full but for one missing. She waves the box at Miranda, who eyes it as if she's never seen one in her life.

Andy clarifies, "I keep some in my bag at all times since--" she stops herself before she can say something stupid like, "Since a fifteen minute lunch is not enough to get me through the day." Miranda arches an eyebrow, which means she knows. And doesn't care.

Nevertheless, she extends a hand, as if waiting for a sword to be placed on her palm so she can finally behead Andy, and Andy offers the box instead, watching nervously as she flips the item and scans the ingredients printed in small letters on the back. Her eyes squint into dark slits, but she makes no move to take her glasses out of her bag.

"How many calories are in this?" she inquires, her tone already accusatory, even as she continues reading, and Andy wonders if she's ever had an energy bar. They are glazed with some chocolate and honey because she likes to enjoy her food on occasion, but the whole point is that they're healthy.

She has just enough courage this time to point out, "You eat red meat at least twice a week," and meets Miranda's glare head-on.

"Fine," Miranda practically spits, tossing the box on the ground between them, "let's play your stupid game." She says it as if submitting to a fate worse than death and Andy supposes that's her way of saying she does want to play while still maintaining her dignity, so she doesn't take it to heart. Or at least tries not to.

She almost utters something as inane as "Really?" but catches herself before Miranda can change her mind. Grinning, instead, she settles in more comfortably (as comfortably as she can on the hard floor), facing Miranda more fully, and says, "Great, I'll begin. Let's see... uh... never have I ever been stuck in an elevator."

Miranda rolls her eyes so hard that she thinks she might be changing her mind after all, but then she says, "Never have I ever played this ridiculous game."

Andy fixes her with a glare of her own, but picks up the box nonetheless, takes out a bar, unwraps it, breaks off a piece, and pops it in her mouth. She catches Miranda watching her moving lips in something she thinks is disapproval. Has she ever actually seen any of her stick-thin employees eat? Does she fool herself into believing they don't?

"Never have I ever been anywhere outside of the US."

Miranda, looking to be struggling with the obviousness of having done it and the reluctance to put anything procured by Andy in her mouth, reaches for the same bar, breaks off a smaller piece than Andy did, and takes a cautious bite, chewing slowly. After swallowing, she states, "Never have I ever gone skinnydipping."

Without her permission, Andy's heartrate picks up pace as her mind conjures up an image of her boss, buck naked and wet. She lowers her head to hide her blush as she gets her piece of energy bar. When she looks up, swallowing, Miranda's eyebrow is arched. "Once," she croaks by way of explanation, "back in Ohio."

Getting a hold of herself, she takes her turn: "Never have I ever been to a football game." Miranda doesn't take a bite. "Really?"

"I don't like sports," she explains stiffly, and though she doesn't exactly seem to be having the time of her life, she's still playing along and Andy can't believe that _she's playing "Never Have I Ever" with Miranda Priestly!_  Maybe it's a good thing they don't have alcohol after all.

"Never have I ever been arrested," Miranda utters without having to think about it while Andy has been keeping her statements boringly tame. But hey, if Miranda wants to raise the stakes, she's all in.

With a cheeky curl of her lips, she grabs the bar and proudly elaborates, "I participated in a protest when I was in college to raise the minimum wage. It got kinda out of hand," she adds before taking her bite.

"Of course you did," Miranda murmurs almost under her breath and Andy's head pops up. What's that supposed to mean?

"Well, some of us don't have the privilege of being millionaires," she quips.

Miranda shoots back, "Never have I ever made my millions without working hard for them."

"You can't do that," Andy argues. "That's not how you play the game and, besides, it's not even your turn."

"Sorry, game police, please do take your turn," Miranda retorts and Andy can't tell if she's exasperated or amused. She's never experienced Miranda's "funny side"--doubts she even has one--and isn't sure if she can handle it.

She recollects herself with a deep breath and, in the spirit of upping her game, says, "Never have I ever had a one-night stand."

And, despite being the one who started it with skinnydipping and jail time, Miranda's eyes widen outrageously, as if she's never heard anything more scandalous. But when she speaks up, instead of reproaching Andy, she questions, "You haven't?"

"Nope," Andy answers, trying to sound casual. She's always been more of a "serious relationship" kind of gal. "You?"

Miranda's eyes widen further and now her reaction fits Andy's expectations better: "That's none of your business," she says haughtily, one step away from clutching her pearls. Andy has to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing.

"That's not how the game goes, Miranda. If you did it, you have to take a bite." Miranda, however, shoots a flesh-melting glare her way, and of fear of making her back out, Andy reluctantly huffs and gives up. "Fine. Your turn, then."

To her dismay, Miranda announces, "This game is worse than your stupid joke," which Andy takes as, "Play time is over."

"Fine," she says again, sighing, and leans her head back against the wall. "What do you wanna do then?"

"Sit in silence," Miranda says infuriatingly. So they sit in silence.

Miranda starts looking around again, and so Andy does the same. She finds a spot on the wall, some mark left by what seems to be the sole of a shoe, though if someone could manage to get their leg that high up, they damn well deserved to leave a mark. It's not big--maybe even caused by a toddler's shoe, and that makes more sense: a toddler being held in a grown-up's arms, kicking its legs against the moving walls. If she stares at it long enough, it almost resembles a tortoise, minus the legs.

Sighing, she examines her beige, patent shoes on the floor, a lint on her trousers, the contents of her bag. She extracts her phone again, punching random numbers in vain, holding it up above her head in a fruitless attempt at finding signal. She gives up and slumps against the wall.

"Is anybody going to be worried about you?" Her head snaps up at the sound of Miranda's voice. Surprised that she even spoke, she prepares to be insulted by her implication when she realizes that the question was genuine, that Miranda wants to know.

"My boyfriend," she answers. When their eyes meet, she clarifies needlessly, "I have a boyfriend. Nate."

"Hmm," is Miranda's response.

"But he, uh..." Andy begins, then contemplates finishing her sentence, weighing the merits of sharing with Miranda information she probably doesn't want to have. That's none of her business.

Fuck it, she decides. "He probably won't realize," she admits, both to Miranda and herself, "at least until much later since, you know, I come home late every night."

She gives Miranda a pointed look, but when their eyes meet again, she averts hers, feeling guilty. Dropping off the Book and Miranda's dry cleaning at the townhouse is her job that she gets paid to do as an assistant. It's not Miranda's fault--nor hers, for that matter--if Nate ends up sulking about their quality time together being lost.

Reading her mind, Miranda hums. "He doesn't understand your life," she murmurs knowingly. It's not a question.

Andy opens her mouth to dispute her, to give an indigant response, to argue that she doesn't have Miranda's job and responsibilities to understand and that being her second assistant is not Andy's "life." She hears herself say instead, "No." No, he doesn't.

Miranda's nod is subtle, almost imperceptible. Her eyes are focused on a stain on the wall by the door, across from Andy's shoe print. Her fingers play--absentmindedly, Andy thinks--with her wedding ring, twisting it back and forth. In a voice even softer, she says, "Then he's not worth it."

Andy looks up, trying to find her eyes, her own big with bewilderment. "Excuse me?"

"If he doesn't understand your new life, your new interests and aspirations, if he can't be a part of it," Miranda continues, her tone almost hypnotic, a deep, low sound that Andy has to strain to hear, "then you should let him go."

"You want me to break up with my boyfriend?" Andy asks in disbelief. Miranda blinks, turns to her, and now she's the one who looks bewildered, as if she didn't realize she'd been speaking aloud.

"I'm not gonna leave him, Miranda," Andy says, more forcefully than she intended, before Miranda has a chance to open her mouth. For now, though, she suddenly looks at a loss for words, and isn't that a crazy, new development?

"This is just a phase, it'll blow over. I mean," she adds and shrugs weakly, "this is great and all, I'm learning a lot of new things at _Runway_ , but the fact hasn't changed that that's not what I wanna do with my life. I want to be a writer."

"It doesn't matter," Miranda interjects with that deep, low voice again, surprising her. "Writer, assistant... any job you pick--it comes with its fair share of pressure and responsibilities and leaves very little time for personal life. Trust me, I've been doing this a long time."

"S-so, what?" Andy asks slowly, losing her defensiveness. Her eyes big and her eyebrows furrowed, she stares at Miranda. "It's this or that? A career or personal life? I have no choice?"

"We often don't," Miranda replies on a sigh, her voice just above a whisper. Andy doesn't ask who she means by "we."

"Why don't you leave your husband then?" she counters, surprised at her own boldness. The memory of walking in on an argument she shouldn't have witnessed is still so fresh in her mind that the thought of it alone raises goosebumps on her skin. She thinks of Miranda's husband refusing to let her off the hook for one dinner missed and Miranda, in a moment of fragile vulnerability, begging for his understanding... just as Andy has been finding herself doing with Nate more times than she cares to admit lately.

 _"Let me know when your whole life goes up in smoke. That means it's time for a promotion."_ Those were Nigel's words. For the first time, Andy wonders how much Miranda has had to sacrifice to get to where she is, and how much Andy will have to.

Gulping, she looks up again, bracing for Miranda's wrath at her intrusive question. It doesn't come. Miranda takes a deep breath, her whole chest expanding with it, and slowly blows it out. She raises her eyes to the ceiling, she lowers them to her ring, she stops playing with it, and she says, "Never have I ever been to South America."

She looks expectantly at Andy, who doesn't pick up the lone bite-sized piece left of the first energy bar. Taken aback, she mentally shakes her head and does her best to keep up with Miranda, as usual. "Already told you I've never left the US."

"Right," Miranda mumbles, looking strangely lost all of a sudden. It's not a look, Andy realizes, that she likes to see on Miranda. She's mean and she's impossible and, more often than not, she makes Andy feel like absolute shit, but right now, looking almost helpless, she's a human, just like Andy.

She hastens to add, "But my parents have. They, uh, they went to Costa Rica before I was born. They really liked it." Then, in keeping with the theme of learning about one another and for the sake of covering this eerie tension that has taken over the elevator, she asks, "What about your parents?" Miranda's eyes dart to hers. "What are they like? Your family?"

And in an instant, she's Miranda Priestly again. Andy should be glad that the odd moment has passed, but now she's being held under the scariest glare Miranda has ever given her: worse than when she interrupted her argument with her husband, worse than when she called fashion "stuff" on her first day at _Runway_ , worse than when she mistook Donna Karen for Donatella right to her face.

_Right. Off limits._

She gulps again and mumbles, "Never have I ever been on TV."

Miranda grabs the last bite, pushes the wrapping paper away in disdain, and leans back against the wall. Even though it's her turn, she doesn't speak, just chews slowly, looking anywhere but at Andy.

"Are you thirsty?" Andy asks a few minutes later, eyeing the wrapping paper on the floor, and reaches into her bag. "I have a... water bottle here, somewhere--"

"Rivka," Miranda says, and between the softness of her voice and Andy's fumbling, she almost misses it. Freezing, she looks up at Miranda, her brow crinkled.

Miranda doesn't look back, but goes on to elaborate, "My mother's name." Andy's forehead smoothes out and she closes her gaping lips. _Oh._ Then Miranda gives a small shrug of her shoulder. "Was, anyway. My father was..." She exhales and shakes her head. Her own features harden ever so subtly and her lips purse. "Well. It doesn't matter."

"I like that name," Andy whispers, for lack of anything else to say. "Rivka--it's a nice name."

"Mmm," is Miranda's only acknowledgement of her words, but she still seems deep in thought.

"Do you have any siblings?"

To her surprise, Miranda answers with a nod. "Two," she says. "Sisters. Hannah is two years younger than me and Helen six. She's the baby."

Despite her emotionless, almost monotone delivery, Andy finds herself smiling, picturing Miranda as an older sister, bossing everyone around, passing down wisdom and lessons.

She tries to imagine how Miranda's family reacted to her lifestyle, her career, her status and reputation, whether she still keeps in touch with them or has distanced herself from a past she seems reluctant to unpack.

Where is she from? Andy wonders for the first time. What kind of childhood did she have, what values were bestowed upon her by her parents? Were they supportive and loving like Andy's parents or hard and strict like Miranda? Was her house homey and lively? Did they have family dinners and shared holidays? How was Miranda shaped to be who she is today?

The moment is short-lived and her questions are left unanswered. Miranda inhales sharply through her nostrils, seeming to snap out of whatever trip she was taking down memory lane, and fixes Andy with her gaze, her pursed lips back. "You?" she asks stiffly, as if feeling obligated and not actually interested. "Any siblings?"

"Me-- oh, uh, no," Andy stammers, trying, once again, to keep up. "No, it's just me. An only child." She smiles with a half-hearted shrug.

Miranda nods again, but adds nothing further. So Andy does, feeling almost desperate to offer reassurance for reasons beyond her, "Whatever your family was like, I'm sure you're a great mother to your ki--"

"That's enough."

She shuts up at once.

She listens for any humming, as she usually hears on elevators. For beeping numbers and whirring air conditioning and even people outside screaming her and Miranda's names, trying to get a reaction.

She hears nothing.

How much longer? she asks herself, and yet she's also not entirely eager to leave the elevator and face the real world with Miranda, who's shared incredibly personal details with her, who's indulged her in a silly game, who's let her see her sit on a dirty floor. In this elevator, they're almost equals. Outside of it, Andy might just be royally fucked.

"Do you want to keep playing?" Miranda asks out of the blue and Andy turns, astounded, to find her staring squarely at her. There's no disdain, no feigned or real boredom; Miranda just awaits her answer.

"O-okay," she stutters like a total idiot.

Exhaling through her nostrils, Miranda nods, but doesn't say anything. So Andy takes it upon herself to say, "Never have I ever stolen anything."

She thinks she sees Miranda's lips twitch as she reaches for the box, unwraps another bar, and breaks off a piece. "Never?" she asks, more conversational than she's ever been with Andy, inside the elevator or out of it.

"M-mm." Andy shakes her head. "Good, Midwestern girl." To her pure astonishment, Miranda snickers before popping the piece into her mouth.

"Never have I ever dyed my hair."

Andy's eyes lift to her iconic, white coiffure before lowering to Miranda's own challenging eyes, daring her to dig deeper. She's not that dumb.

"Me neither," she says simply. "Never have I ever cheated on a partner."

Miranda doesn't take a bite. "Never have I ever lied about my age."

Andy takes a bite and confesses sheepishly, "To get into a few bars. Not that good." Miranda raises an eyebrow. "Never have I ever been broken up with."

A dark look flittingly crosses Miranda's eyes before she reaches for the bar and takes her piece. Then her eyes bore uncomfortably deeply into Andy's and she states, "Never have I ever been with a girl."

Just like that, Andy feels warmth spread up her neck, cheeks, and ears and, coyly, she breaks off her piece. She only meets Miranda's unrelenting gaze for a moment before taking it in her mouth, grinning impishly.

"Being" with a girl can mean a lot of things, she concedes to herself, and Miranda didn't specify. She'd be lying, though, if she didn't count the time she drunkenly kissed her college roommate... and the time she, not so drunkenly, kissed her fellow photographer at _The Daily Northwestern_. Objectively, she can admit that girls are better kissers than guys, but then girls do everything better.

Nate is a good kisser, but she does wish sometimes that he didn't have all that stubble. Miranda's lips look incredibly soft...

She banishes that thought to the back of her mind and looks up just in time to see Miranda snag her own piece and slowly lift it to her lips, her eyes never leaving Andy's widening ones.

Oh. Oh... Wow.

She watches in a haze as the side of Miranda's lips lifts into a secretive smile. "Your turn."

"Um..." She swallows and tries to get her brain back in working order. "Never have I ever had meaningless sex."

Miranda gives a bitter, little chuckle and takes a bite. "Doesn't that fall under the one-night stand category?" she inquires, inadvertently or advertently giving Andy her answer.

"Okay," Andy relents. Solemnly, she states, "Never have I ever been married to someone I didn't love."

Miranda's eyes flash and Andy thinks this is the last straw. But she doesn't meet her demise and Miranda doesn't take a bite. Instead, she chuckles again, darkly--the sound is ugly and scary--and asks, "Is that all you've got?"

No. No, that's not all Andy's got. Not anymore. She skewers Miranda with her gaze and says, "Never have I ever lied about not being with a girl just to see if someone else has."

She's not scared now. Not when the dots are coming together and Miranda's face flushes and her skin looks so smooth and her eyes so clear--

"Never have I ever invented a stupid game to get to know my boss."

"Never have I ever made an employee get in an elevator with me so I could be close to her," Andy shoots right back, her eyes narrowing chellengingly.

And shockingly, Miranda's lips stretch and lift, her cheekbones becoming more pronounced. She takes the last bite of the bar, holds it up, and says, "Touché."

Andy watches in wonder as she closes her lips around it, chewing languidly, her eyes never leaving Andy's.

"So?" Miranda asks after swallowing and Andy blinks in question. "Who won?"

Andy opens her mouth and takes a breath, wanting to say that this game has no winners, that nobody in this messy equation can win, that--

She's interrupted by a loud screeching sound, like an engine revving up, and then the lights around the elevator buttons come on, the dull humming is back, and the ground beneath them is moving, sending them on a slow journey downward.

Miranda is the first to get to her feet, dusting off her butt and legs and patting down her hair, even though not one hair is out of place. Andy, wordlessly, follows her, stashing the box of energy bars in her bag and lifting the straps onto her shoulder. She's putting on her second shoe, using the railing to balance on one leg, when they stop moving and the doors slide open onto the ground floor, the afternoon sun just low enough in the sky to peek through the lobby windows and sneak its way into the elevator, granting it a golden glow.

***

"Um, Miranda?" Andy says the next day, stepping timidly through the threshold of her boss' office.

They've spoken, since leaving the elevator, as little as possible, keeping everything professional, pretending nothing has ever happened. Even as Miranda stayed at the office longer than usual the night before, making up for all the, apparently, hour and twenty-three minutes of work lost, they barely exchanged a glance.

Andy went home that night to Nate, who, after hearing about the ordeal, hugged her, asked if she was okay, and gave her a stubble-scratchy kiss. She wondered, as she lay in bed, if Miranda's husband had also kissed her.

She waits for Miranda's head to lift from her laptop before taking a deep breath and saying, "About yesterday..." she pauses, waiting for Miranda to stop her and tell her that they aren't talking about it, that they are still pretending nothing happened. Miranda says nothing.

"I wanted to apologize," she continues. "Some things were said and I..." She takes another breath. "I was out of line, and I'm sorr--"

"Be prepared to leave at 11:15," Miranda interrupts, "and have Bertoli's people be ready for us."

Obediently, Andy nods. Pretending it is then.

At precisely 11:15, Miranda stalks out of her office, snatching her bag and coat from Andy's outstretched hands. Together, they head for the elevators, where Andy presses the button and steps back when an empty car arrives for Miranda. She's learned her lesson now for sure.

Except... Miranda enters the elevator, turns around, and gives her the most impatient look Andy's ever received. Eyes wide and mouth dry, she steps inside, turning to look at Miranda, who lifts her eyebrows, looks at the panel of buttons, and back at Andy, knowingly. Andy follows her gaze: _Runway_ is on the twenty-seventh floor.

When their eyes meet again, Andy beams at Miranda, who smiles back right as the elevator doors close.

**Author's Note:**

> Perhaps not my best work, but I hope you liked it nevertheless. More fics coming soon.


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